


and kisses are a better fate than wisdom

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 20:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Maedhros didn't kiss Fingon and one time he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and kisses are a better fate than wisdom

**One.**

Maitimo heard a sharp cry coming from the garden and waited for a moment.

But once it was clear that neither Fëanáro, nor Nerdanel, and certainly not Macalaurë were going to go sort things out, he heaved a little sigh and put down his pen. As he shambled down the stairs, Tyelkormo was going up -- almost streaked past him, slipping a little. 

But Maitimo, who was quite adept at child-catching by now, did catch him and pulled Tyelkormo back in front of him. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Tyelkormo said quickly. Maitimo examined him critically, but his littlest brother seemed intact, essentially.

“You must have done something,” he said, and then -- “hang on, didn’t Uncle Nolofinwë bring his boy here for you to play with? Turko, what have you done with him?”

Tyelkormo squirmed away before Maitimo forced an answer out him, and Maitimo thought better of chasing him. He had to find Findekáno, after all.

Findekáno, as it turned out, was easy to find. His small, dusty figure stood stiffly at attention just inside the main gate. He looked down the road for the first sign of his father’s carriage. Maitimo felt a terrible stroke of guilt -- he was going have it out with Tyelkormo! -- but he approached Findekáno cautiously.

Although, as he got closer, the boy looked up and gave him a hard stare. Feeling suitably chastened, Maitimo said, “Hello, Findekáno. What happened to you?” though he did not really expect an answer.

“Nothing.” Findekáno slumped a little, and Maitimo noted the leaves in his hair. There were also scratches on his face, and Maitimo resisted the urge straighten him up a little and give him a little kiss on his forehead, as he did when Tyelkormo was hurt, or had done with Macalaurë when he was that young. But it did not seem like the right thing to do, exactly, with his half-uncle’s child, and certainly Findekáno did not seem to want to be comforted.

So instead, Maitimo waited with him at the gate for a few more minutes until he stooped down to Findekáno and said, not unkindly, “Would you come with me to the kitchens? You can look out for your father’s carriage there and keep me company while I cook.”

When it seemed that Findekáno would refuse, Maitimo continued on hastily, “You would be doing me a favor, it is very boring to cook by yourself, you know.”

And finally, Findekáno nodded and followed Maitimo inside.

**Two.**

“You ought to teach me how to kiss,” said Findekáno one afternoon.

“You’re a terrible pupil,” said Maitimo, stopping his work to stare out the same window as Findekáno been doing for the last few minutes. He ought to have shut it, before Findekáno had arrived, but really, his cousin would surely find something else to distract him.

A neglected pile of schoolwork stood as mute testament to Findekáno’s distraction. But the afternoon was growing late and Laurelin’s waning light filtered into the schoolroom, amber-colored, and the tiny dust-motes swirled in the air. They all conspired to made him feel sluggish and hot. 

Suddenly more than a little irritable, Maitimo turned his attention back to Findekáno, who was industriously doing nothing. “Haven’t you got other people to ask? Girls? People who aren’t your cousins?”

“I only asked,” Findekáno said with considerable dignity, only slightly spoiled by a spot of ink on his cheek, “because you are supposed to be good at it.”

“I --” Maitimo straightened up, and glared at Findekáno, who gave him a bright smile -- “get back to work.”

And that was that.

**Three.**

It was the first time he could remember being utterly, completely dismayed to see Findekáno anywhere --but it wasn’t just anywhere, it was here, in Aqualondë, after the battle. He was staggered, he wanted to shout, “What are you doing here, you brave fool? Don’t you know what we’ve done?” But, of course, Findekáno didn’t know -- hadn’t known that the Noldor had attacked first-- when he had rushed into the fray.

But would that have stopped him? 

Maitimo had a piece of rag in his hands -- he didn’t know where it had come from, he didn’t want to look very closely at it -- but he handed it to Findekáno, hating the lost look in the other’s eye. “Clean yourself up,” Maitimo said quietly, “we must go.”

Findekáno wiped his mouth and avoided his eye.

But we’re both in it now, thought Maitimo. 

**Four.**

Fingon had picked up the fine art of heckling somewhere (perhaps urging a faltering people across the Ice did not always take kindness) and he used it admirably well. “Come on, even Idril can hit better than that!” he said, as he dodged Maedhros' lunges easily, almost knocking his sword out his hand in the process. 

Maedhros felt unbalanced – his right arm hovering close uncertainly near his left – his body had not yet learned that the fight must start with his left hand now. Fingon stood close, still talking, “Actually, this is an insult to Idril, she's really quite vicious, I'm very proud of --”

And Maedhros was upon him in a moment, both of them tumbling to the ground, Maedhros on top of him. Their swords fell to the ground, momentarily forgotten. Maedhros’ lips hovered briefly over Fingon’s -- there was a moment of painful suspension before he said, “Yield.” 

Fingon bucked, trying to throw Maedhros off. “Never.” 

 

**Five.**

The grey, sagging clouds overhead broke within sight of Barad Eithel, and they rode through what felt like a solid curtain of rain to the gates of the fortress, and waited to be let in. The horses’ hooves clattered on the flagstones of the courtyard, puddles rapidly forming wherever they happened to step. Elves streamed out various doors and entryways, ready for the visitors. Foremost among them was Fingon, who took Maedhros’ hand as soon as the other man had dismounted. 

“What was so important that you had to come all the way here, and couldn’t send a letter?” he asked, his voice warm, as they made their way quickly up a flight of stairs and into the fortress proper. 

“Later,” Maedhros said, as they went up another. Finally, Fingon opened the door to a small room lit by a blazing fire, and with large tub of water in the middle of it, still faintly steaming. 

“Would you like me to fetch your valet? He would be downstairs still,” Fingon said, but Maedhros shook his head.

Maedhros’ clothes were designed to be put on and pulled off one-handed. 

So Fingon's assistance was not needed, exactly, to pull off his cloak (that was still heavy with rain water) nor to undo the ties of his tunic. Still, Fingon concentrated on it, his brow slightly furrowed, until, quietly laughing, Maedhros gently caught his chin and kissed him. Finally. At last. 

When Fingon pulled away, his eyes alight, and said, “Is that why you came?” 

Maedhros shook his head, and began to pull down his sodden clothes. “I have a proposition for you, my king.” 

Fingon turned away, belatedly thinking to give Maedhros some privacy. He mused as he locked the door and drifted down the hall to the adjoining room, “Only you would say it like that, as if you owned a king.” 

Maedhros sank into the water -- tepid now -- with a sigh. In a low voice that Fingon was nonetheless sure to hear, he said, “Oh, certainly not. Not this king, anyway.” 

“That’s right,” said Fingon, bringing in the towels. 

**Six.**

His heart kept beating. He knew that it would. 

There was too much to do to nurse a broken heart, or luxuriate in thoughts of fading. He probably wasn’t the type for it, and more likely, he was doomed to live, for however long his doom should hold.

Maglor worried about him, loudly, though he was careful not to say a word. His brother, of course, had other ways to express himself, and an anxious thread ran through his music now, when he had opportunity to play.

The others pretended not to notice, overmuch, the significance of the death of one cousin. One of many cousins, one of many deaths.

It was only at the end of the day and he had some opportunity to close his eyes a little -- he could not go on, never sleeping more than an hour -- but then he would collapse, too tired to fight sleep and the familiar sense of absence would come. Loss. Nothing. His mouth moved, shaping letters to a name he could no longer speak aloud.

**Author's Note:**

> Title hastily acquired from e.e. cumming's [since feeling is first](http://www.cs.berkeley.edu/~richie/poetry/html/aupoem162.html). 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you, Elleth, for beta-ing this, lo, these many moons ago.


End file.
